


Bad Cop, Worse Cop

by EatYourSparkOut



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Coercion, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Facials, Gangbang, Group Sex, Hazing, Humiliation, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-14 00:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11196423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatYourSparkOut/pseuds/EatYourSparkOut
Summary: Still new to the enforcers, Prowl's ambition draws some unwanted attention.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for maccadams-filthy-fills on tumblr! Found here:
> 
> https://maccadams-filthy-fills.tumblr.com/post/161067562860/a-younger-new-to-the-force-prowl-getting-hazed-by
> 
> Wrecking Prowl is just too fun.

Prowl was having a decidedly bad night.

A few deca-cycles ago, and freshly graduated from Iacon Law Academy, he had elected to join the enforcers rather than pursue a career in the judiciary branch. While his skills would have undoubtedly been beneficial in that sector, he'd believed applying them to the nuances of homicide investigation the better choice in the end.

Prowl had always enjoyed putting his processor to the test, and unraveling the complexities of such cases were firmly within his area of expertise. He felt that he could better serve Iacon in this way than as a lawyer, or judge, and he wasn’t above admitting that it was somewhat of a selfish decision as well.

After all, he was choosing a career which offered no end of mental stimulation. Not only would he be able to assist in removing those mechs from society who threw a wrench into its inner workings, but he would do so in a way which kept him thoroughly occupied. The idea of bringing those who inflicted violence and disorder on the general populace to justice was eminently pleasing, but even more so was the satisfaction he would undoubtedly glean from puzzling out their identities—and the chase which would ensue.

Because Prowl would always end up victorious. This, he was sure of.

Unfortunately for him, one didn’t simply acquire a position in Homicide through application. No, It was a position achieved by exhibiting an exemplary work ethic, and aptitude for such investigation while assigned elsewhere—and it was a promotion he would be striving to earn as quickly as possible.

For now, Prowl was at the bottom of the ladder with all of the other new recruits—assigned an experienced partner and patrolling as a beat cop. His partner, a motorcycle named Velocitation, had so far left Prowl largely unimpressed.

He’d been on the force for one thousand, two hundred, and fifty-six stellar cycles, and yet made no advancements in rank. It was possible that he had chosen to stay in his position out of a sense of duty to the community—or even an appreciation for working the streets—but Prowl thought it unlikely.

While experienced, Velocitation was a fairly unremarkable mech. In fact, Prowl would nearly call him incompetent. They had only been placed together for a deca-cycle, but already Prowl was following standards more accurately—had made more observances which had led to either the ticketing or arrest of lawbreakers.

Despite this, Velocitation insisted on correcting Prowl constantly. He did the bare minimum himself, and then turned around and acted as though the instruction he was giving Prowl wasn't blatantly incorrect. Velocitation’s main flaw—the thing which had kept him here for all these years—was clearly laziness, and Prowl despised lazy mechs.

There was yet another reason to dislike his position as Velocitation’s partner, and it had nothing to do with the job.

Prowl hadn't missed the stares—the optics which lingered on his doorwings or his bumper while Velocitation thought him occupied. Nor had he missed the misguided and awkward attempts to be ‘helpful’, which more often than not consisted of Velocitation bragging or showing off his supposed prowess.

On one occasion, he had been treated to a froidian slip—equal parts horrifying and amusing—wherein Velocitation had commented on what a nice night it was, and nearly used the word spike instead.

Velocitation’s crush was distastefully obvious, and Prowl had zero interest. For now, it was merely irritating and inconvenient, but he could only hope that it wouldn't become a larger problem in the future.

At the moment, he and Velocitation were responding to a call—only half of yet another tedious shift completed—and Prowl had resorted to tuning out most of what his partner was saying. He devoted a small amount of his processor to sorting through the idle chatter—in case there was something he was expected to respond to, or something of actual import—but for the most part Velocitation seemed satisfied by his silence.  

He was likely under the impression that Prowl respected him enough to heed his advice, or was interested in his clumsy advances. Unfortunate, but beneficial in times like these.

The drive to the warehouse was therefore, fairly uneventful, and though they had ample opportunity to apprehend two mechs involved in what was very likely a drug deal on their patrol through a seedier portion of town, Velocitation paid them no mind.

Clearly, he felt that this call to the warehouse took priority—though it was strange that Prowl himself hadn’t received it, and that Velocitation had failed to update him. He was new, yes, but it was standard procedure to alert all enforcers as to what the dangers of any particular situation were, and Prowl was being kept in the dark. He didn’t like it.  

As they rolled up to the warehouse—silent and looming in the late hours—the feeling of foreboding only intensified. There were no overt signs of activity, and nothing that would have alerted the enforcers unless they had received a tip. Not out of the question, but the fact that Velocitation had yet to say anything about their purpose at this location was concerning.

Something was definitely... off about this situation, and while Prowl hadn’t yet parsed what, his plating had begun to unconsciously lift away from his frame, and a static tingle plagued his wheel wells.

Still, he had no choice in the matter. He didn’t have the authority to challenge his partner, nor did he believe that speaking up once more to inquire would achieve better results. Comming dispatch to confirm might have adverse consequences for him—should this turn out to be misplaced suspicion, and Velocitation found out.

For now, he would simply have to remain on his guard.

Velocitation transformed to root mode, and Prowl followed suit, trailing after him cautiously as they approached the front entrance. His smaller partner certainly wasn’t acting as though there was something to be on guard for as he pushed through the inexplicably unlocked doors. He hadn’t even drawn his weapon.

Prowl hesitated briefly, but then brushed aside his uneasiness and stepped through the entrance as well. Velocitation padded forward confidently, leading Prowl through the cavernous main room—filled with disconcertingly lifeless machinery—and then to a door located on the right side. He glanced at Prowl, and motioned clearly that he should be the one to enter this one first.

Prowl eyed him warily, but acquiesced. His fingers drifted to the stun baton at his side.

The door slid open as he approached it—no code or manual pressure required—and the first thing he noticed were the lights. Unlike the room before, these were clearly in use, and as a result his optics took a moment to adjust.

The second thing he noticed, was that he had entered a break room of some kind. Spacious enough that a number of mechs could fit comfortably, with a few pieces of furniture and a fair amount of empty space.

The most vital piece of the puzzle however, was sitting on the counter and smiling unpleasantly. While the other two mechs lounged in chairs located beside a worn table, Barricade had chosen to position himself front and center—so that Prowl had no choice but to meet his optics as he walked in.

And those optics were not welcoming by any means.

Prowl’s hackles rose immediately, though he succeeded in keeping his plating from flaring noticeably. Behind his cool exterior, he was bristling with apprehension, but his foremost emotion was unsurprisingly, irritation.

As a sergeant, Barricade was in a higher position than Prowl, and as the one in charge of all the patrolling officers Prowl answered to him directly. This often made things difficult, considering that Barricade had decided that Prowl’s existence was a personal affront to him in the span of one cycle.

Prowl knew that Barricade also had his optics on homicide, but he had been an enforcer for millennia, and had been consistently passed over for promotions. Prowl garnering so much attention—and a number of commendations, despite his rookie status—had quickly drawn his ire.

From the way he was leering, it appeared Barricade’s tolerance had come to an end, and regrettably, Prowl had some inkling as to what his plans were. He was already running a number of calculations to determine his options, but so far he didn’t see any course of action in which this would not end badly for him.

That conclusion was further cemented when Velocitation stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him. Prowl looked askance at his partner, who was pointedly not meeting his optics—though nothing of his bearing suggested shame or reluctance.

A coward then.

Prowl was thoroughly unimpressed.

He looked back at Barricade, who was still watching him unnervingly—like a cybercat who’d caught a glitchmouse and was merely waiting to consume it, who wanted to _play_ with it first.

“What is your purpose in bringing me here?” asked Prowl, in a clipped manner. Better to get to the point, rather than invite Barricade’s irksome commentary on him being thrown off-guard.

Barricade’s grin only widened, an unsettling display of denta.

“What? Golden boy can’t figure it out? I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” he said, voice edged with contempt. “If this is what’s got command all starry-eyed, they must have lowered their standards.”

Barricade was underclocked if he thought Prowl the type to rise to such obvious provocation.

“I have my suspicions. I am merely waiting for you to confirm them,” responded Prowl coolly.

He didn’t glance over at the other mechs—who were watching the scene with rapt attention, though trying for nonchalance. He had already recognized Oil Track and Crossguard, and neither their characters, nor how their fields fluctuated with anticipation suggested a favorable outcome to this meeting.

Barricade barked a laugh.

“Still all high and mighty, even though you know what you’re here for?” he scoffed. “Well, I guess I can respect your nerve, if nothing else.”

The patronizing tone grated on Prowl’s circuits.  

Off to the side, Oil Track snickered, and Crossguard elbowed him in turn. A muffled and snide “emphasis on the nothin’,” drifted across the room despite the maneuver.

Barricade slipped down from where he was perched on the counter—landing with a soft thud which betrayed his bulk. Prowl was of average build, and Barricade towered over him by at least a head—a fact which he now used to his advantage as he approached.

Prowl stood fast, even as Barricade grew close enough to loom over him.

“You’ve been stirring things up at HQ Prowl,” he said softly. “You dragged your shiny aft and smart mouth through the doors, and started acting like you ran the place, and command almost bought it. You think you’re so clever—think you’re better than all of us—because of what? High marks from a fancy academy doesn’t mean scrap on the streets.”

Prowl felt it best not to mention that he had already been outperforming a number of officers on the streets as well, and that his so-called cleverness was in fact a result of a highly capable processor. He remained silent as he waited for Barricade to finish what would undoubtedly be a long-winded diatribe.

“You’ve got no right to that superior attitude,” continued the other enforcer. “The rest of us have been working our skidplates off for years, and I’ll be slagged if I see some _rookie_ trying for homicide when he’s still fresh off the assembly line.”

Prowl quirked an eyebrow in feigned interest, unaffected by the crudely veiled threat.

“Some might say that your conclusion is inherently biased, being as it’s based on a refusal to acknowledge a superior _skillset_ ,” he rebutted. “Rather than accept my abilities as a potential asset to the enforcers as a whole, your misplaced jealousy will only cause division within the ranks, and be detrimental to progress of any kind.”

Prowl wasn’t succumbing to hubris in making his statement—he knew what his strengths were, and how to utilize them effectively. He would be invaluable in homicide, and it didn’t hinge on whether other mechs liked him or not, or whether they deemed his attitude acceptable.

The only thing that mattered, was results.

Barricade’s visor glinted, and he tensed as though about to strike Prowl. He braced himself for the impact, and was mildly surprised when Barricade managed to restrain himself—channeling the aggression into a harsh vent instead.

“You’re a jumped up piece of scrap,” said Barricade, voice deceptively calm. “And a _show-off_. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. Because we’re your teachers, and we’re here to help you learn how this works.”

He leaned down, so that he was optic-level with Prowl.

“You’re gonna earn your position just like the rest of us. Or even better, you're just gonna crack under the pressure, and flake out like every other two-bit rookie who walks through the doors thinking they can climb their way to the top by sucking up to the right people,” purred Barricade.

Prowl could have sighed at the cliche of it all. Though, he did find it amusing that Barricade thought him a suck-up. Prowl had no real patience for flattery or gaining mechs’ favors; his manipulations were of a different kind, and he liked to think that they were more subtle.

“I assure you, I have no intention of leaving,” answered Prowl. “Whether or not you choose to believe that makes no difference to me. I _will_ be promoted to homicide—sooner, rather than later—and I suggest that you focus your attentions on coming to terms with that fact.”

It would never cease to amaze him—the way that other mechs allowed jealousy to cloud their judgement. It made much more sense to accept one’s own flaws, and utilize the abilities of others where one was lacking. Prowl hardly regarded himself as perfect; in social settings he was dismal.

“We’ll see about that,” snarled Barricade as he stretched up to his full height once more. “But in the meantime, we’re your superior officers, and that means you obey our orders without question. _Understand_?”

At the table, Oil Track and Crossguard were pushing their chairs out and getting to their pedes. Behind him, Velocitron was still hanging back, but he had inched closer than before and Prowl could feel the edge of his EM field brushing against his own. It was steeped in eager anticipation, slight nervousness, and—most concerning of all—the sharp edge of hunger.

“It means you’ve gotta take anything we give you,” Oil Track added with a leer. He gave Prowl’s a frame a once-over, and Prowl deliberately stiffened his sensor panels to keep them from twitching.

Despite the instinctive urge to shield himself, Prowl met the salacious gaze impassively.

“And if I ‘take’ this to command instead?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

Barricade’s smile was all denta, and in viewing the cold optics Prowl gained some idea of what other mechs felt when they were confronted with his own icy demeanor.  

“Try it,” suggested Barricade, voice like silk-wrapped steel. Danger lurked beneath the cordial tone.

When Prowl made no response, the smile turned smug.

“On your knees,” he ordered.

“Yes sir,” Prowl gritted out, with all the scorn he could muster.

He dropped to his knees, assuming a modified parade rest stance with legs slightly parted, and servos clasped behind his back. He refused to exhibit defensiveness—refused to be cowed so easily.

Prowl’s processor was running calculations at breakneck speed, but to no avail. He was being hazed—that much was clear—but his options were severely limited. These four were hardly the only officers who disliked him, and he didn’t have enough who would come to his aid at this point should it become his word versus theirs.

Even if he wasn’t kicked out due to whatever accusations they might choose to make, it would still have far-reaching consequences. He would likely be shunned by the rest of the enforcers, and he briefly imagined himself in that position—with a string of partners who refused to work with him, and no chance of promotion.

Prowl didn’t need people to like him, but he did understand—and detest—the social politics of a workplace environment. It was his reputation that was at stake, and refusing to go along now would almost certainly ruin it.

But if he could weather this—if he could indulge Barricade in his twisted illegal charade—he would be off the beat in no time. His skills were wasted here, and his superiors had already begun to know it. All he needed was enough time to cement his value in the eyes of command.

Barricade looked down upon him with no small degree of satisfaction.

“Not so high and mighty now are we?”

Prowl pressed his derma together tightly, but Barricade didn’t seem bothered by the lack of response and instead glanced over at Oil Track and Crossguard with a smirk.

“Guess he still thinks he’s better than us. We’ll just have to fix that, won’t we?” he asked them.

Crossguard chuckled, and it took all of Prowl’s self-restraint to keep from snapping out the statistics which did indeed suggest he was better than them—and that their brutish tactics did not speak to their own intelligence, nor give him a very high opinion of their characters.

In the meantime, Crossguard made his way to Barricade’s left, while Oil Track slipped behind Prowl. Being unable to see the mech was enough to make his plating crawl. Out of the four of them, Prowl liked Oil Track the least. He oozed unprofessionalism… among other things.

Velocitation on the other hand, slunk away from his position behind Prowl to make room for Oil Track, and he settled in against the wall to his right, a small ways off. It seemed that he was content to watch for now.

“Really?” prodded Barricade. “Nothing to say? You were so confident earlier, with your little snide comments—surely you have some more _insight_ to share with us.”

Prowl gazed steadily back at the bigger mech, debating whether or not to break his silence.

“It would be a waste,” he finally stated—allowing Barricade to interpret his mild tone as he wished.

“Got that right.”

Barricade’s response was ripe with self-satisfaction, and predictably, he had missed the snub. It was probably for the best.

Suddenly, there was a pair of servos latching onto his doorwings, and gripping tight. Prowl bit back the startled noise it generated, but felt his face twitch nonetheless. Praxian sensor panels were sensitive—this was common knowledge—and the rough treatment hurt.

Oil Track had little concern for his comfort however, and began to grope them eagerly. He ran rough servos up and down their expanse, and traced the edges with deliberate pressure until Prowl’s doorwings shuddered involuntarily—unsure whether to flutter away from or into the barrage of sensation.

He scratched lightly at the grooves—pressed his fingers in—and charge crackled across Prowl’s plating, much to his chagrin. Oil Track wasn’t a Praxian, but he was a pursuit vehicle of a similar size, and was obviously familiar with the intricacies of such a frame.

“Pretty ain’t he?” asked Oil Track, the smirk evident in his tone. Barricade huffed his amusement, indulging his officer.

“Yeah he’s got that goin’ for him at least. But I think I know a way he’d look even prettier,” he drawled, and it was punctuated by the telltale click of an interface hatch disengaging.

Prowl very briefly considered cycling his optics at the quip, but then a spike was pressing against his derma and his expression turned to a scowl instead.

Barricade’s spike was slightly larger than average for a mech of his already considerable size. It was the equipment of someone who was overcompensating—not by a ridiculous amount, but just enough that it betrayed what was likely misplaced confidence in the berth.

Unsurprisingly, he was also someone who cared about appearances. His spike was as glossy black as the rest of him, with stark grey detailing. Ridges ran down the length of it, but they were spaced fairly close together in rings. Orange biolights glowed bright—betraying his arousal.

It was with no small amount of derision that Prowl noted the color of his biolights was the exact shade used for his custom optics.

The spike pressed slightly harder, and though he seethed inwardly, Prowl caved to Barricade’s impatience. He parted his derma and allowed the spike access—taking the first third of it easily. The bitter taste of hot metal and oily transfluid assaulted his sensors, but he did his best to channel his revulsion into something more productive.

Prowl briefly considered biting down. He’d automatically run the calculations to determine how much force it would take to sever the appendage, and Barricade’s reaction would almost be worth it.

Almost.

Unfortunately, the repercussions of such an action were not worth the fleeting satisfaction he would gain. No, better to put forth all of his skill so that this was over as quickly as possible. Prowl prided himself on his efficiency after all.

Barricade groaned as Prowl deliberately rubbed his glossa alongside the bottom of the spike, and his hips jerked forward at the soft friction, pressing in farther. Prowl hummed—not triumphantly, but at the knowledge that this might be over quicker than he had planned for—and he applied deliberate suction to the length now resting heavy on his glossa.

Barricade swore, and in the periphery Prowl saw Crossguard palming hungrily at his own panel. With any luck, at least one of them would wear themselves out, and not require his… services.

Velocitron was already venting shakily, and though Prowl couldn’t see behind him, he could hear the telltale sound of fingers having found their way into a valve. No doubt Velocitation wished he was in Barricade’s position at the moment.

Prowl continued suckling at the proffered spike, making sure to alter his technique occasionally so that Barricade wouldn’t become bored. A quick flick of a glossa here, a hum there. All perfectly rehearsed.

“Isn’t this much better Prowl?” asked Barricade with a light chuckle. “You're not nearly as insufferable when your vocalizer’s offline. We outta find other ways to keep your mouth occupied around HQ hm?”

“I know I wouldn’t be disappointed to find him waiting under my desk,” added Crossguard, voice gravelly. “Or you know, over it.”

A flash of anger—despite the predictable lines—but there would be no witty rejoinder forthcoming, due to exactly the circumstances Barricade was admiring.

The molestation of his doorwings had faded to the background; they’d become acclimatized to the current level of stimulation, and were attempting to adjust for it. If his partner had truly been trying to please him, rather than satisfy their own selfish desires, they would have backed off long ago—before it became tedious and irritating. Oil Track had no such concerns.

However, the dulling of sensation in one of his most sensitive areas meant that Prowl felt it keenly as the servos trailed down to squeeze his aft, and then farther—mapping out the span of his thighs, and venturing inward where they could squeeze the inner panelling appreciatively.

Prowl’s initial instinct was to freeze—the first real stirrings of dread bubbling up from within—but he was distracted by yet another spike prodding at the corner of his mouth.

It appeared that Crossguard had finally pressurized. Prowl begrudgingly attempted to accommodate him as well, but quickly realized that a spike so large would hardly fit alongside Barricade’s already considerable girth. Crossguard was an armored car, and proportionately endowed.

The spike’s owner settled for rubbing it against his cheek, and Prowl grimaced internally as transfluid smeared across his plating. He dimmed his optics so that he wouldn’t have to look at the scene any longer, and preserve at least some of his dignity.

“ _Hey_ , none of that now,” chided Barricade almost immediately. He pinched Prowl’s chevron, and the confused receptors sent a sharp surge of pain and involuntary arousal coursing through his lines.  “Optics up.”

Prowl reluctantly onlined them once more, and Barricade seemed pleased by his irritation—not to mention, the hint of defiance which was no doubt shining through. Prowl was cooperating yes, but that didn’t mean he had to act the part of the meek shareware they so obviously wanted to make of him.

“Why don’t you show Crossguard a little attention too,” suggested Barricade, in what was practically a purr.

Prowl drew back, and took the opportunity to wipe the oral lubricants from his chin. He glowered at Barricade for good measure, but bent down once more and mouthed obligingly at his new objective.

Crossguard had ridges as well, but these were much more pronounced—meant to catch on valve lining rather than massage it. It made it difficult for Prowl to get his mouth around even the tip of the larger mech’s equipment, and he struggled to wrap his derma around the first few sets—worming his glossa in-between the gaps in the plating until Crossguard groaned appreciatively.

“Come on,” he grunted, “Harder.”  

Crossguard was a mech of few words both in and out of the berth it seemed, which suited Prowl just fine. Barricade’s silence wouldn’t last long, and he was just _waiting_ for Oil Track’s inane chatter to pick up once more. And though the chorus of muffled whimpers from Velocitron had faded into the background, his partner’s presence was difficult to ignore.

Disregarding the order from Crossguard—Prowl could permit himself _some_ insubordination, considering the circumstances— he instead pulled back so that the spike didn’t stretch his derma quite so much. Now his glossa had unfettered access to the transfluid channel, and he took advantage—pressing and rubbing along the hypersensitive opening.

Crossguard shifted with another groan, and Prowl made to repeat the motion, but was interrupted as Oil Track’s servos finally ventured to his array. The abrupt palming of his panel caught him by such surprise that he swallowed around the portion of spike still occupying his mouth.

“Frag,” rasped Crossguard. “Do that _again_.”

Prowl complied—hoping both that he could drag the mech into a quick overload, and that Crossguard would be satisfied with only one. At this point, the majority of his attention had shifted to Oil Track, and he was growing increasingly concerned by the way his thumbs rubbed insistent circles against his valve cover.

Use of his mouth was one thing. Use of his array, however... was less than ideal.

Suddenly, one of Oil Track’s servos abandoned its post to seize one of Prowl’s doorwing hinges—relatively untouched until now. Prowl’s charge spiked abruptly, and it was enough to catapult him into a small, unexpected overload.

His startled moan drew a similar one from Crossguard, and Prowl used the last of his self-control to keep the rest of his reaction subdued—despite the full-body tremors which assaulted him as uninvited heat blazed across his frame.

A shout from behind, muffled in the crook of an arm. Velocitron had overloaded along with him, obviously an _appreciative_ audience.

Meanwhile, Prowl’s spark had drawn in tight—throbbing with both tense anticipation and unwelcome pleasure.

“Alright, that’s enough” ordered Barricade, shoving at Crossguard’s shoulder. Crossguard groaned in disappointment, but obeyed and withdrew his spike from the warm cavern of Prowl’s mouth. The brief respite allowed him to rest his aching derma and jaw, for which he was glad—though he highly doubted that Barricade was anywhere close to finished.

“He’s getting pretty warm back here, boss,” chuckled Oil Track, as both servos returned to the task of massaging Prowl’s panels. Prowl nearly let loose a soft moan as the sensation traveled up his array—primed by his earlier overload—but he refused to give them the satisfaction.

“Bet he’ll be all nice and _wet_ too,” Oil Track added—leaning in close—and Prowl wanted to shudder away from the glossa which trailed across his audio receptor.

“And tight,” Crossguard rumbled with a lecherous grin, from where he had begun massaging his own spike in lieu of Prowl’s mouth.

Oil Track snickered. “You’ve got that one right, Cross. The only thing this drone’s been fragging lately is the stick up his own aft”.

With that came the first spike of true anger, and Prowl just barely managed to reign in his temper before he said something which would only escalate the situation. They weren’t the first to say such things, and they wouldn’t be the last.

Barricade hummed, and looked down thoughtfully at Prowl. Then, he clapped his hands together decisively, and barked an order.

“Aft _up_ , officer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being as it's Canada Day, I'm sure there's a mountie joke in here somewhere ;3c
> 
> Chapter 2 coming soon!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments/kudos! 
> 
> As promised, part 2~

Barricade stepped back, and while Prowl knew what was expected of him, he struggled to obey. He also knew that humiliation burned bright in his optics, and that Barricade revelled in it. Minor thoughts of rebellion danced in his helm. Perhaps if he put up enough of a fight, he could get away with a beating—rather than suffer this... indignity.

One more look at Barricades face however, quickly squashed those considerations. The menace lurking behind his calm facade reminded Prowl of the danger he faced—largely outside of this room, should he choose to make enemies of these mechs.

“We’re waiting,” growled Barricade, and Prowl bowed his helm.

He shifted his weight forward, dropping to his servos and knees, and exposing more of his array to Oil Track’s eager exploration. Barricade reached down to curl fingers under Prowl’s chin—jerking it up for easier access—and then he was pushing in again before Prowl could even think to protest.

Barricade rolled his hips once, and then again, and Prowl almost choked—spike pressing at the back of his intake already. Barricade had apparently had enough of going slow, because now his servos gripped the back of Prowl’s helm, and held fast as he slid further in. The spike inched beyond resistant calipers to occupy Prowl’s intake, and then even further, until his derma were flush with Barricades housing.

Prowl struggled not to gag—to relax and coax his calipers to loosen, and not fight the intrusion.

The lining of his intake fluttered along the hard length, and Barricades fingers gripped almost hard enough to dent.

“Oh yeah, that’s it,” grunted Barricade, rocking into the sensation.

Of course, that wasn’t the end of it. He used his hold on Prowl’s helm to slide back, until only the tip of his spike rested on his derma. This time as Barricade pushed his way back in, he took one of his servos from the back of Prowl’s helm, and wrapped it around his chevron instead.

The pressure as Barricade squeezed down—as he used the sensitive ornament as leverage to thrust forward—dragged the first genuinely desperate sound from Prowl’s mouth. He couldn’t keep himself from crying out, muffled as the noise was against Barricade’s spike. 

Every sensor ignited in protest, and the confusing barrage of pain-lanced pleasure which radiated throughout his frame was nearly overwhelming. Barricade then repeated the motion, setting a rhythm which would be much harder to ignore than Oil Track’s unhurried mapping of his frame.

Crossguard had propped himself up against the counter, and was stroking his spike in time with Barricade’s thrusts, apparently content to watch. His visor gleamed as he watched the slick slide of his superior’s spike through Prowl’s oral lubricants.

From behind Prowl, Velocitation’s vents were beginning to rattle once more, and the tell-tale sound of lubricants squelching had grown even louder, and more frequent. Overload number two likely wasn’t far off, and how he planned to look Prowl in the optics tomorrow morning after this shameless display was beyond him.

Oil Track’s rough palming had been redirected, and now he was rubbing firm fingers directly over where Prowl’s node lay hidden. To Prowl’s dismay, his valve gave an interested throb from behind its panel, anticipating the phantom touch.

“C’mon, open up,” muttered Oil Track, as he dug fingers into Prowl’s seams. He seemed ready to pry panels off if Prowl resisted, so he sent the manual command to unlatch them, exposing his valve to the cool air. He noted distastefully that lubricant had begun to bead at the rim as a result of all the stimulation—though it didn’t run down his thighs, for which he was grateful.

Now that the barrier had been removed, Oil Track’s fingers sought out his node, and the relentless kneading ensured that pleasure curled up Prowl’s spinal strut even as he tried to twitch away. When he rolled the cluster between his fingers, Prowl’s hips lurched involuntarily—chasing the sensation.

That was the worst part of this entire charade—that under any other circumstances he might enjoy such attention. Oil Track hadn’t been completely off the mark with his scathing comment; Prowl hadn’t had an intimate encounter in quite some time, and his frame was distressingly receptive to the possibility of changing that, whether he was a willing participant or not.

Prowl tried to reason his way to a more optimistic view of this situation. He couldn’t pretend that he wanted to be here—the suspension of belief required would be nigh-on impossible—but perhaps he could attempt to enjoy it, in whatever miniscule capacity. He would take the overloads as compensation, if nothing else.

Oil Track’s fingers were pushing at his entrance—tracing the valve rim, and slipping just inside to prod none-too-gently at the nodes within reach. The rough treatment sent lightning racing up Prowl’s circuits; it made him want to curl inwards to escape the intensity of the stimulation, though his traitorous valve continued to lubricate nonetheless.

The fingers cared not for his discomfiting arousal, and ventured deeper. Prowl was fairly tight—not having had a partner for quite some time, and preferring node stimulation to penetration while self-servicing. Despite this, Oil Track managed to wriggle one finger in to the hilt, and quickly set about opening Prowl further.

He wasn’t considerate, and in his attempt to make room he stretched Prowl’s rim until it burned—his valve-lining twinging in protest. On the other servo, neither was he unnecessarily cruel, and Prowl was glad for the simple fact that Oil Track had bothered to prepare him at all.

By the third finger, the discomfort had faded to a dull annoyance, and the pleasure was once again bubbling up in Prowl’s lines. Oil track crooked the fingers inside of him—catching and rubbing against an especially prominent sensor cluster—and Prowl choked out a moan against Barricade’s spike just as it pressed down his intake once more. Barricade’s engine rumbled approvingly.

“See?” laughed Oil Track, “He likes it”, and Prowl burned with hot shame.

_ I like the stimulation—however meager and unsatisfying—after centuries with my servo. Not you, _ he thought distastefully, though humiliation still prickled sharply under his armor.

“Probably knows it’s all he’s really good for,” snickered Barricade, jerking his hips more sharply, and nearly denting Prowl’s nose. Optic-stinging pain shot through his helm, and it dampened his arousal momentarily as he struggled not to gag.

Unfortunately, Oil Track had removed his fingers, and something larger was pressing against his valve. The entry was smooth—if a little snug—and his calipers bore down eagerly on the spike as it slid in. Oil Track groaned blissfully, pressing in until his pelvic armor met Prowl’s aft, and Prowl struggled to reign in his reaction to the way the spike stimulated long-neglected nodes.

Oil Track’s spike wasn’t particularly long—evidenced by the fact that it didn't even reach Prowl’s ceiling node—but it made up for that in girth. Short and plump, it was littered with small bumps and nubs which massaged Prowl’s lining in an utterly blissful fashion.

Prowl hated him for it.

Oil Track’s fans were straining, and he was already muttering Prowl’s praises as he set up a short and fast rhythm which bounced Prowl between the two spikes vying for his attention. Irritation at the rough treatment warred with the heat suffusing his frame and spark as another overload built, and the latter won out. The next hard thrust made his optics flare, and though he couldn’t see it at this angle, Prowl could only imagine the smug satisfaction on Barricade’s face.

To his right, Crossguard had quickened the thorough pace of his servo on his own spike.

“Hey Velo, get over here,” he rumbled, and Prowl could feel the flare of his partner’s field from where he was sitting slumped—close to overload once again.

Barricade hummed in agreement.

“Why don’t you join Oil Track,” he suggested slyly. “I’m sure Prowl would love to get some feedback from his partner. A more  _ thorough _ evaluation.”

For a moment, Prowl thought Velocitation might refuse; he was after all—as Prowl had already determined—a coward. But after a moment’s hesitation, Prowl heard him scramble to his pedes, and before long there was another mech crowding behind him. It appeared that Velocitation became braver when his actions were taken under the guise of a superior’s orders.

Oil Track’s laugh was almost a giggle, and he shifted aside to make room. Then, a finger was pressing alongside the spike already lodged in Prowl’s valve, and his level of alarm soared to new heights.

Velocitation apparently wasn’t content with testing the waters, and he used his newfound confidence to push his way in—despite the way Prowl’s valve clamped down in protest. Prowl couldn’t entirely hide his wince, but Velocitation was undeterred and he tugged and pulled deliberately at the lining until it loosened enough to permit the intrusion. Oil Track’s spike chose that moment to jostle a so far untouched node cluster, and the gush of lubricant which followed ensured easier passage.

Soon, there was another spike pushing alongside the first—and wasn’t it just typical, that Velocitation would be impatient and sloppy in this regard as well? 

The process of coaxing more and more of Prowl’s calipers to stretch to their limits wasn't entirely painless, but thankfully Velocitation’s spike was proportional to his smaller frame. In fact, it was the polar opposite of Oil Track’s—long and slender and lightly ribbed—and therefore its dimensions made the entry difficult with so little prep, but not impossible.

The copious amounts of lubricant which had begun to slide down Prowl’s thighs certainly helped, as loathe as he was to acknowledge his frame’s complacence.

Finally, both mechs were seated—the tight fit making movement nearly impossible.

“Oh frag,” groaned Crossguard, and out of the corner of his eye Prowl saw him fist the head of his spike enthusiastically. Barricade’s own engine stuttered as he took in the scene before him.

Velocitation shuddered, and he rocked forward with a short gasp—spike no doubt skirting the edge of overstimulation. Prowl’s calipers bore down weakly, and helped to hold him tight against Oil Track. The two of them attempted to set an alternating pace, but it quickly devolved into feeble and disorganized thrusts, each frantically chasing their overload. 

Prowl couldn't keep up with the erratic pattern, occasionally stricken by extreme discomfort, and other times withholding whimpers as the two spikes dragged carelessly across swollen nodes.

Velocitation’s breathy moans contrasted with Oil Track’s drawn-out groans, and both left an equally unpleasant taste in Prowl’s mouth.

Or perhaps that was just the spike.

Prowl’s composure finally shattered when Velocitation slipped; the change in angle forced his spike deeper and it prodded against Prowl’s neglected ceiling node. Prowl whined—much to his eternal mortification—and his vision burst into static as Velocitation lurched forward to repeat the motion—giddiness registering in his field.

For the first time since this farce had begun, Velocitation spoke up.

“It’s too bad we can’t get at your spike like this,” he murmured wistfully. “...but there’s always next time.” And with that he reached down to caress the upper edge of Prowl’s doorwing almost reverently—thumbing a sensor panel which had unfortunately had time to recover from its earlier overstimulation.

The brush of Velocitation’s servo was all it took for Prowl’s frame to seize in overload once more—doorwings flaring stiff, and electricity crackling between his seams. It shuddered its way through every system, and assaulted him with nearly painful intensity.

Barricade moaned low, before spilling charge deep down Prowl’s intake.

There was too much transfluid to swallow entirely, and Oil Track and Velocitation’s own overloads barely registered as Prowl struggled to not make a complete mess of himself. Despite his best efforts, some transfluid still escaped the confines of his mouth, and had it been free he would have bared his teeth in displeasure. 

It was made worse when Crossguard chose that moment to overload himself, spike close enough to Prowl’s face that the resulting fluids splattering across his cheek and nasal ridge.

None of it landed in his optics, for which he could be reluctantly glad.

Barricade pulled out with one last satisfied rev of his engine, and more transfluid followed in its wake, dribbling down the side of Prowl’s chin. He swallowed again—in an attempt to clear most of the grimy taste from his mouth—and slowly closed his aching jaw to relieve some of the tension which had built up.  

Behind him, Velocitation’s field was a sickening combination of blissful satisfaction, hesitation, and a hint of malaise—no doubt having been swept up by his co-conspirator’s enthusiasm. Oil Track had already pulled out and slumped over, and disgust flared once again when Prowl registered that he had overloaded on his doorwings. The transfluid would dry tacky and cause no end of irritation if he wasn't able to clean it off in a timely manner.

Barricade and Crossguard both seemed inordinately pleased with themselves—especially considering that their “victory” had been so meaningless in the end. They’d demeaned him certainly, but they hadn’t deterred him.

Pathetic.

Prowl wiped the transfluid from the corner of his mouth with some contempt, meeting Barricade’s optics unflinchingly. They wouldn’t find him riddled with shame in the aftermath, at least. He’d done what he’d had to, and nothing more or less. Nevermind that he felt filthy inside and out.

Barricade seemed slightly frustrated that more of a reaction wasn’t forthcoming. He frowned, but ultimately seemed to decide that Prowl wasn’t worth it, and flicked his fingers at the others.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here. We’ve got better things to do.” 

Dismissive to the very end—making it clear that Prowl was merely an amusement to be used and discarded. 

Barricade turned that glacial gaze back on him for a brief moment.

“Prowl here’s a smart bot. I’m sure he knows how to handle sensitive situations like this,” he added with a sneer, the threat transparent.

Then Barricade left, aiming a kick at Prowl’s front on his way out. It was enough to buckle the supports in his left arm, but Prowl managed to keep from crashing to the floor by compensating with his right. 

Nonetheless, he hissed softly as the pain registered.

Crossguard trailed after Barricade with an irritated snort—obviously having hoped for a more dramatic conclusion to the night.

Oil Track wasn’t far behind, trailing his fingers across Prowl’s sensor panels in one last mockery of a caress before he exited. Velocitation on the other hand, finally removed himself from Prowl with a disappointed groan—half-hard again, and likely willing to continue.

Prowl shuddered at the sensation, and counted himself lucky that Velocitation didn’t have the mettle to go against Barricade’s commands and go on by himself.

“This was fun,” Velocitation murmured. “We should do it again some time.”

And with that thoroughly unsettling statement he too left—leaving Prowl cold, alone, and covered in the traces of their depravity. He pointedly ignored the fact that his servos had begun to tremble, and set about cleaning himself up the best he could with the cloth he had on hand.

He could take this to command now, and provide them with proof—alongside the obvious, he had recorded audio of the entire encounter—but he knew it would be useless. As he had determined before, he had no real influence—didn’t hold the right cards to bring this incident crashing down around Barricade. Any potential case would never come to light, simply be brushed aside and covered up by those who would project a united front.

Prowl could wait—for a better day, for a better opportunity. He was patient.

In addressing Barricade and the others, he would act as if nothing had happened. Better for them to see him unruffled by their intimidation, and not give them the satisfaction of seeing him cowed.

With Velocitation however, perhaps the opposite was in order.

He could let slip an offhand comment here and there which emphasized the unsatisfying nature of the encounter. Or better yet, portray Velocitation in particular as the inadequate one by singling out his lackluster performance as compared to the others. Prowl was an excellent liar—he could certainly pretend to have preferred—and even enjoyed—Oil Track’s ministrations, in order to stir up some resentment.

Dissent in their ranks would only aid him in the long run.

Prowl would be off of patrol in record time—his skills put to use in a more specialized department. Then, he would be free to lay the foundations for his retribution. He would ruin Barricade and his little gang, tear down whatever reputation they had garnered over the years until all of their prospects withered before them. Ideally, none of them would ever set another pede in a station, save for perhaps, on the other side of the bars.

The fantasy bolstered Prowl’s resolve, as he finished up wiping away what he could. The rest would have to wait until he had gotten home to his washrack. The grimy film which lingered on his plating was highly agitating, but he channelled the faint stirrings of distress at the edges of his processor into fuel for his animosity.  

Anger was useful; it was productive. He doesn’t have the luxury to care—not now, not when it might just break him to dwell too long on what had just occurred.

He looked at the soiled cloth in his hand, acutely felt the ache of his jaw and valve as they registered the lingering effects of the violation, and was incensed.

None of them would see it coming, and they would know by the end that attempting to bend him to their will through such underhanded methods had been a mistake.

And then, of course, there was the issue of legality. What they had done was more than grounds for arrest and prosecution, and had in the past landed many mechs behind bars where they belonged.

His determination to see justice served overrode the lasting disquiet. He stood, and began making his way unsteadily towards the door. 

Prowl had no sympathy for criminals.   
  



End file.
